Brook could keep up the pretence no longer. He smiled at the aggression on her face.
‘Well?’
Instead of an answer, Brook leant over the old dry stone wall he’d been sitting on, and wrestled with the pole.
‘What are you doing?’
Brook finally extricated the pole from the ground and flung it into the tiny, lavender-scented front garden.
‘Damen!’ Jones looked at the pale limestone edifice of the house, expecting the front door to open and the owner to appear. ‘I’ll have to arrest you if the owner complains.’
‘Don’t worry, officer.’ Brook cracked into a wide grin. ‘I am the owner.’
‘You’re what?’ Jones laughed and pummelled Brook’s shoulders with her fists. ‘You shit. I thought I’d done something. When did you…?’
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘You never said.’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘It is that. When did you decide to do it?’
‘When someone very important to me asked me why I didn’t live properly.’
Jones looked at him and walked slowly into his arms, not moving her eyes from his. She put her hand behind his head and pulled him onto her mouth, kissing him long and hard. When she broke for air, she pulled his head onto her shoulder and whispered into his ear, ‘Take me inside.’
Two minutes later they were making love as though it were their last night on Earth. Every touch, every stroke, every thrust was urgent. They burrowed into each other, as if determined to emerge from the other side, and when it was over they held each other, molten in their physical union, for a long time.
When they de-coupled they lay on the bed talking and touching, feeling the breeze billowing through the curtains, cool their hot skin. They made love again, this time taking pleasure in the exploration of the other’s face and neck and torso.
Later they showered together, dressed and returned to the pub for urgent supplies of liquid and solid food, as Brook had not yet been able to transfer his copious supplies of party food from the fridge in his flat.
Brook slept better than he had for many years that night and, when he woke, spent many minutes gazing at Wendy’s sleeping frame.
Then he dressed and went down into the kitchen. He made coffee and sat on a bench outside the back door, on a small flagged patio which overlooked the rest of his steep, walled garden as it fell away from the house.
He drained his cup and went back inside for a refill and a cigarette. On his way back to the patio, he picked up his resignation letter for a final perusal.
There wasn’t much to check. Four lines got the job done. Three of them were used to thank McMaster for all her support and wishing her well for the future. He signed the letter and folded it into an envelope.
As he lit up, Jones stuck her head round the door. Her hair was tousled and she seemed groggy. ‘What time is it?’ she asked, pulling Brook’s towelling robe tighter.
Brook examined her. She was even more beautiful in the early morning light. ‘Gone seven.’
‘Is that all? I should have slept longer.’
‘You’ll miss this lovely morning. Why don’t you have a shower? I’ll go get something for breakfast.’
‘Sounds good.’
An hour later, full of hot buttered muffins, Brook ignited the Sprite, and he and Jones set off for Derby.
Brook looked around the Chief Super’s office as she read his letter of resignation. It seemed more spartan than usual. The spider plant had long since perished and several objects which usually adorned the desk had disappeared. He craned his neck over the desk and caught sight of a cardboard box full of the detritus of a career.
She looked up at him, nodding sadly. ‘So you’re giving in.’
‘If that’s the way you want to look at it, ma’am.’
‘It’s how your enemies will look at it.’
‘They can think what they want. What about your enemies, ma’am?’
McMaster screwed her eyes and stared beyond Brook to the window. ‘I found out last night. I’m being transferred out.’
Brook nodded. He had no need to ask whether it was voluntary or not. ‘I see. But you fight on?’
‘Of course I fight on, Damen. I believe in what I do, and how I do it. I’ll be back. Mark my words.’ There was anger in her eyes.
Brook smiled to comfort her. ‘I envy you, Evelyn. And pity you. How can you keep going?’
‘What should I do? Take the easy way out, like you?’ Brook laughed. ‘I’m sorry, Damen. I didn’t mean that.’
‘Yes you did. And yes, you should take the easy way out. Caring can damage your health.’
‘I can’t. I won’t let them beat me.’
‘I didn’t for a minute expect you would.’
McMaster stood and gathered her dignity and held out her hand. Brook shook it warmly. ‘Good luck, Damen.
The Force needs people like you. I’ll hold onto this letter for forty-eight hours…’
‘Why?’
‘It’s standard practice-unofficially. In case you change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’
Brook gunned through the lights and roared up the Uttoxeter Road. As he approached the flat, he saw old Mrs Saunders standing on the pavement, arms folded, looking up and down the road. She was just a tiny thing, barely five feet in height. She raised an arm when she saw him and watched as he slowed to a halt and jumped from the car.
‘Anything wrong, Mrs Saunders?’
‘I’ve already called the police, dear. Some lads kicked your door in. I rang straight away but they weren’t in there long. They only left a few minutes ago. I’m sorry, dear, but I didn’t dare come outside until they’d gone.’
‘You did the right thing, Mrs Saunders. Wait there.’
‘Oh, Inspector.’ Brook turned. ‘One thing. I know it’s a weird name but I definitely heard one of the young men call another one Jay or Jace. Is that a help?’
Brook nodded. ‘Maybe.’
He ran to the flat’s wrecked kitchen entrance and stopped in the doorway. The door hung from its hinges now and Brook had to lift it to go inside.
He looked down at his feet and stepped back. The floor was flooded with the water still spurting from where the sink had once been. It had been hammered into three large pieces and water was sluicing around the floor.
Various plastic food packets bobbed on the water. The fridge, which had had its door wrenched off, had then been pushed over. Brook could see a selection of cocktail dips and cooked chicken being showered by the fountain from the decapitated cold water pipe. The fridge door itself had been thrown at the kitchen window and lay half in, half out, of the shattered frame.
Brook lifted up his trousers and tiptoed across the sopping floor to the hall. From the living room, an acrid stench assaulted his throat forcing him to clench a handkerchief over his mouth.
He kicked open the door through which he’d watched Vicky brush her hair those many months ago. The smoke hit Brook in the eyes, so he bent low and forced his way through the room to the front door, satisfying himself that there was no heat from a blaze. He flung open the front door and stepped through to let his lungs pull in the fresh air. The acrid smouldering of Brook’s sofa began to dissipate and Brook was able to see into the room.
He looked at the devastation. The brand new TV and video recorder lay pulverised on the floor. His chair and table were blackened by the smoke but were otherwise intact. The telephone and answering machine had also been
